Perfect Moments in Time

I play with my sons as much as I can because those are the most perfect moments in my life. The other night, we played football. Well, it wasn’t really football; it was more like chasing whoever had the ball around the house until you caught him. And once you caught him, you tickled him into submission. Jackson and Ethan began teaming up and blocking for each other. A prouder daddy I couldn’t have been. By the way, Charlie throws a mean spiral.

After football, we played Hide and Go Seek. Jackson and I hid on the far side of the couch under a blanket while Charlie looked for us. Jackson thought it would be funny to fart while we were under the blanket, knowing that I would be trapped in the smell. He couldn’t help but laugh, and Charlie found us.

That night, like every night, after my sons went to sleep, I checked on them and spent a few minutes watching them sleep. Those few moments are always perfect moments in time where I reflect on how fast my boys have grown, how much I love them, and wonder what their futures hold. Those moments, as are the moments when I’m playing with my sons, have a palpable yet surreal and fleeting feeling to them that I wish I could capture and save forever. But as much as I cannot capture light in a jar, I cannot capture those moments. The best I can do is burn those moments into my memory, because like all other perfect moments in time, they slip away.

When I took my boys camping for their first time this past summer, I spent a few moments watching them while they slept in the tent. Watching them sleeping in their new sleeping bags was a perfect moment in time. Then I spent time watching the dying campfire, not wanting it to die, because watching it in the quietness of the nighttime forest was a perfect moment in time. When the fire was reduced to coals, I watched the moon and the stars as they kept their eternal stead, and that was a perfect moment in time. Those moments I burned into my memory as they slipped away.

Our days in this life are numbered. Every moment we live is one less moment that we have left to live. While we may have a lot of imperfect moments in our lives, we have perfect moments ahead of us, and when they come, I hope that we can cherish those moments and not let them be tainted by the imperfect moments that came before.

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For The Longest Time

         The Billy Joel song "For the Longest Time" came on today. As I listened to it, I realized that I hadn't heard that song for the longest time. I then wondered if I should be embarrassed to admit that I like Billy Joel's music. That's not something to be ashamed of, is it? Or, since I grew up in a quiet neighborhood in a nice town, am I only supposed to like Eminem? A poseur I am not. I hate Eminem. Except, of course, if I want you to think I'm cool. Then I'll tell you that he's a genius and that I saw 8 Mile six times.

         But the question remains, should I be embarrassed about liking Billy Joel's music? Certainly it can't be as bad as admitting that I loved the Bangles, especially their song "Walk Like an Egyptian," which is hands down the best song ever written. Did I just admit I loved the Bangles? Maybe. But I'll just say this: I am not embarrassed to admit my love for the Bangles singer, Susanna Hoffs. She is flat out hot. 
         Susanna, I loved you then and I love you now. Is this burning an eternal flame? Maybe. I should probably see a doctor about it. But enough about me, Susanna. This is about you and, well, about your restraining order. It's not necessary. Did I mention that I wrote you a song? If you let me sing it to you, you'll know how much I love you. It's called "I Love You A Really Really Lot Because You're Really Really Hot." That's all there is. It's a short song. 

         Anyhoo, so there I was, listening to Billy Joel's "For the Longest Time," and I was struck by the part that goes "Who knows how much further we'll go on / Maybe I'll be sorry when you're gone / I'll take my chances, I forgot how nice romance is / I haven't been there for the longest time."

         Listening to these lyrics, my first thought was, "Wow, he rhymed 'chances' with 'romance is.'" My second thought was, "I sure hope a bird doesn't land on my head today." I worry about that a lot. How am I supposed to react to a bird landing on my head? Especially in public? Am I supposed to swat it away and make a fool of myself in the process? Or do I pretend that I don't really care that there's a bird on my head and go about my business? And if a bird did land on my head, I wonder how long it would stay there? All day? I certainly hope not. I think I could handle five minutes all right. That seems like a reasonable amount of time.

         But after thinking about birds landing on my head, my next thought was "Am I willing to take chances for nice romances?" (Pretty sweet how I rhymed that, huh?) If the risk involves a high probability of being bludgeoned, I'd say no. Been there, done that, and I'm not a sucker for pain. But how can I gauge the probabilities of bludgeoning? Maybe it's not possible. Maybe no two people can gauge the probabilities at first. Maybe, as the relationship goes forward, it's a matter of somehow proving to each other that you can trust each other, that you can satisfy each other's basic relationship needs, maybe not all at once, but at least that you can move in that direction.

         There are songs about loving someone so much that you'd die for them. I'll let you in on a little secret. Dying for someone is easy. It takes no talent. Living for someone, on the other hand, requires a lifetime of work, and that, to me, is love. 

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Hawaii: Just Another Alcatraz?

          I've never been to Hawai'i. I hear it's beautiful, a veritable paradise. I've thought of going there someday, but I have grave concerns. What are my concerns? 
          Geckos. 
          I'm not sure I want to go somewhere where little Geico spokesmen are crawling around on the ceiling while I'm trying to sleep. Gross. I'd need a club to smash all the geckos I could find. I'd teach those cute, witty, insurance-slinging creatures to crawl around on MY ceiling. 
          My next concern about Hawai'i are the tarantulas and tiki idol curses. Remember when the Brady Bunch went to Hawai'i? Enough said. Now, you'd think that geckos, tarantulas, and tiki idol curses would be enough justification for anyone to stay away from Hawai'i, and you'd be right. But oh, my friends, I've got one more reason, you might even say it's the ULTIMATE reason, to stay away from that state: Hawai'i is an island. 
          Actually, it's more than one island, at least according to the propaganda. I really don't know because I've never been there. Either way, my concern is the same. Once you're on that island, you're trapped. The only way off the island is by plane. Maybe by boat. I don't know if they have boats over there, I've never been. In other words, once you get there, you might as well be at Alcatraz. Maybe it's nicer than Alcatraz, I don't know. I've never been there, either.
          Leaving by plane or by boat (if they have boats) ordinarily wouldn't be a problem. But what if, while I'm in Hawai'i, I decided to lead a life of crime? There's only so far I'd be able to run. The police would simply make sure that I didn't board a plane or a boat (if they have boats) and I'd basically be trapped. Sooner or later they'd get me. So that makes me wonder if there is any crime at all in Hawai'i. You'd think that Hawai'i would be the WORST state in which to begin a career as a bank robber.
          If you're like me, you like to eat a lot of Tabasco sauce. And if you're like me, sometimes you want to show how tough you are by drinking a whole bottle of Tabasco sauce on a dare. And although you win the dare and pay for it with severe heartburn and fiery bowel movements, you are comforted by the fact that you've won the respect of your drunken, unemployed friends who've been crashing on your couch and living room floor for the past two weeks. But if you're really like me, you like to keep your options open. That's my motto: keep your options open. That's why I can never decide where to go to dinner. Or which route to take to get to dinner. Once I make a decision, all the other options are no longer open, and that saddens me. 
          The point is, while I never plan on leading a life of crime, you never know if a First Blood (starring Sylvester Stallone) situation will arise where a small town sheriff with an ax to grind unjustly and wrongfully picks on the wrong, but totally innocent, person. So if that particular scenario happens to me, and I think it might because at some point I think my life will turn into a kick ass movie, I'd really prefer that it not happen in Hawai'i, because once I escape from the police, I don't want to be trapped on some island in the Pacific. I mean, if it happened in the continental United States, I could use the survival skills I picked up from all the Rambo movies and Chuck Norris movies from my youth to basically go anywhere from here to the Arctic north or maybe anywhere from here to the southern tip of South America. But if it happens in Hawai'i, my life-turned-movie will be about me trying to swim from Hawai'i to California. Can you think of a suckier movie than that?
          And that's why I stay away from Hawai'i.

The Robot Talk

           Sometimes my boys ask me questions that I just don’t know the answers to. And if I do know the answers, how am I supposed to explain those answers to such innocent, young kids? The other day, my five-year-old son, Jackson, asked me this: “Um, Dad, where are robots?” That’s one of those questions that, as parents, we all expect to someday be asked, yet dread the day that it is asked. I didn’t expect to be asked so soon. I thought it would be another five or ten years before I had to have the Robot Talk with my sons. I say “sons” because Ethan had wandered in from the other room. He’d heard Jackson’s question and wanted to hear what I had to say.

“Well, boys,” I said, looking at my feet, feeling awkward and definitely at a loss for words. “You know…well…robots are everywhere….”

“Where?” Jackson asked.

“They’re in factories….”

“What are factories?” he asked.

“Factories are where things are made.”

“Oh, you mean like bananas and video games?”

“No, not bananas.”

“I want a boonana!” Ethan said.

“We don’t have any bananas,” I said

“Oh!” Ethan said, stomping his foot in displeasure. “I wanted a boonana!”

“Ethan!” Jackson said. “We don’t have any!”

“Dad!” Ethan yelled. “Jackson’s mean at me!”

“Jackson’s not mean at you,” I assured.

“Yeah, Ethan,” Jackson said, “We’re just talking about robots and factories and, you know, more robots.”

“But I really love boonanas,” Ethan said, dejectedly.

“I know you do,” I said. “I’ll get some at the store tomorrow.”

“How did the robots get in the factories?” Jackson asked.

“Maybe they were built there,” I said.

“Oh, they didn’t walk there?”

“No. They were built there or maybe they were brought there.”

“Are they nice?”

“They’re not mean or nice,” I said. “They’re just machines.”

“Oh, you mean, if we’re nice to them, they’ll be nice to us, but if we’re mean to them, they’ll be mean to us?”

“No. They just build things.”

“Why?”

“It makes life easier, I guess.”

Naturally, Jackson and Ethan wanted to know more about car-building robots, so I decided to look for online videos of robots assembling cars. I showed them the first video I found. Jackson seemed interested in the video and Ethan looked troubled. Jackson asked how the robots could see, since they didn’t have eyes. Before I could answer, he asked, “Dad, are those robots gonna try to astroy us?” [Astroy = Destroy in Jackson-speak.]

            I assured him that they would not try to destroy us. Then a lightbulb went off in his head. “Oh, cuz we’d shoot them with guns or something?”

I thought about telling him that these robots will never come after us. But then I thought about the Terminator movies, as well as I, Robot, Transformers, and any number of other evil-robot movies. What if robots did come after us someday? As a parent, I strongly believe that you have to prepare your children for the future, so I answered, “Yes, son, we’ll shoot them with guns. Or something.”

            “And then,” Ethan chimed in, “we’ll throw them in hot lava.”

We all agreed that was a good idea, because throwing robots in hot lava would be so cool.

Hello and Goodbye

          After working late the other night, my colleague and I decided to grab a late dinner at a bar and grill. As we were looking over the menus, a group of women came in and sat at a table not far from us. As you might expect, they were checking me out BIG TIME. 

          Seriously. 

          Stop laughing.

          They really were. 

          Okay, you win, they weren't checking me out BIG TIME, but they were definitely scoping me out. And by "they" I mean that one of the girls glanced at me. 

          For real. 

          We actually made eye contact. And it wasn't because I was staring at her for a really, really long time, so long, in fact, that it finally drew her attention to me long enough to creep her out and tell her girlfriends that the weirdo at the next table was staring at her. It wasn't like that at all. 

          She smiled at me.

          Most guys out there would feel pretty good about that. But the problem was that I could tell by looking at her that she wasn't my type. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that you should always, always, judge a book by it's cover. And I could tell by looking at this girl that she (1) had read Eclipse three times; (2) had played the clarinet up until the eighth grade; and (3) had once been involved in an exorcism.  
          I can overlook a lot of flaws in a girl, believe you me. For example, I once dated a girl who wore braces, which proves that it's not all about looks with me. I really hated those braces, after all. They made her look ridiculous, which is why I broke up with her. Thanks for prying.
          Anyway, back to the girl at the bar and grill. I could have overlooked the fact that she had played the clarinet and had been involved in an exorcism. But I couldn't get past the fact that she had read Eclipse more than once. That's shameful behavior, pure and simple. Obviously, then, once she decided to come over and hit on me, I'd have to turn her down.
          My buddy looked at me and asked me what's wrong. "What's wrong?" he asked.
          "What's wrong?" I echoed.
          "What's wrong?" he repeated.
          "What's wrong?" I parroted.
          "What's wrong?" he re-asked.
          "What's wrong?" I copied.
          "What's wrong?" he italicized.
          "What's wrong," I emphasized, "is that a girl over there is going to hit on me, and I'm not interested."
          I glanced over at the girl. She was looking at me. Then she stood up. "Oh crap, here she comes," I whispered.
          The girl walked towards me...and kept on going, out the front door, and she didn't come back. I was stunned. I wondered what she thought she saw in me that she didn't like. Needless to say, I learned an important lesson that night, which is, the nachos at Old Chicago are superb. Give em a try. Tell em Cody sent you.

New Roads

The road I'd been driving on seemed like the shortest route to my destination and I was confident it would get me there. But it had a lot of potholes. I found that if I drove the speed limit, I couldn't avoid the potholes. I ignored the danger and ended up blowing out a tire and nearly crashed. I was a little shaken and because I was shaken, it took me longer than it should have to put on the spare. 

Once the spare was on, I decided that I couldn't risk driving the speed limit anymore, because the next time I hit a pothole, the damage might be much worse. As I drove on, the road deteriorated to the point that I was barely creeping along. I had serious doubts whether I'd reach my destination as soon as I'd hoped.

I checked the map and found that there were other roads to my destination. One road was just ahead and it looked promising. So I turned onto this new road and there wasn't a pothole in sight. After driving down this new road for a while, it started getting dark, so I turned on my headlights.

But my headlights didn't work.

The darker it got, the slower I drove, because I couldn't see what was up ahead. So I kept it in second gear and didn't dare drive faster. At the speed I was driving, I might as well have stayed on the old road. And that's when it hit me--what if I'd read the map wrong? What if I'd turned onto a road that would take me nowhere near my destination?  

I thought about turning around, but which was better? Driving down a dark road that was barely passable (and which might not be passable for much longer), or continuing on this new road, not knowing if it would take me to my destination? 

The moon came out and I could see the road ahead of me a little bit better. I took a deep breath and let it out. The old road or the new road? Either one might get me to my destination. Or not. The old road was treacherous, but this new road, so far, was really good. I didn't know anything more than that, except that I had to make a decision: the old road or the new road?

I put my hand on the gear shift, pushed in the clutch, and shifted into third.

Broken

Today, I'm a little bit broken.  

I won't always be broken, I hope. My children are away and my world is out of balance. They should be at my house, because it's their house, too. But tonight the house is empty. And quiet. 

And I'm a little bit broken. 

If you ask me, I'll tell you I'm all right. Forgive my lie. I know you want to help, but I don't want to talk, even if you do. Some other time, maybe, but not now.

You see, I'm a little bit broken.

So if I’m a little too quiet, that's just me trying to survive. If I'm guarded and won't let you in, that's just me protecting myself from further damage.

Because I'm a little bit broken. 

There's someone else living my life, the life that I care about, the life with my children. Someone else is teaching them and playing with them while I'm missing them and counting the seconds until it's my turn to have them again.

Until then, I'm a little bit broken.

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Ghosts of Christmases Past

Growing up, I’m not sure that my family had rigid holiday traditions. One thing that was seemingly set in stone, though, was that we couldn't put up the Christmas decorations until after my sister Angie’s birthday on December 13th. I don’t know if that was because my parents dreaded getting out the decorations or that they just wanted to make sure that Angie’s birthday wasn’t overlooked in favor of Christmas. If I had to guess, I’d say it was because they dreaded getting out the decorations.

My poor sister Angie. She’d often get a birthday present and be told that “this is for your birthday AND for Christmas.” That must have sucked. But it probably didn't suck as much as the teasing she got at school. You know, the teasing she probably got for being the head cheerleader. And the Homecoming Queen. And the fantasy of every guy between the ages of fourteen and forty-five. The teasing must have been brutal.

I remember being in junior high and constantly being asked whether or not I thought my sister was hot. I’d always say “no” and then I’d hear all the reasons why my sister was hot. And then I’d get punched in the arm. On more than one occasion, I was asked for pictures of my sister. You know…pictures. I didn’t have any pictures. Looking back, I probably could have made some money, but I wasn’t that kind of kid. You know, the kind of kid who owns a camera.

Anyway, back to the subject. Our family’s Christmas activities varied. Sometimes, they'd include a holiday party at a relative’s house. It was always best when it was a relative who had alcohol or spiked punch available. But we were raised strictly and none of us drank. Not officially, anyway.

My parents would make Christmas goodies and give them to friends and neighbors. Our across the street neighbors, the Whites, would always send over cinnamon rolls. They were the best cinnamon rolls EVER. Thank you, Barbara. I miss your cinnamon rolls. (Yes, this is a ploy for cinnamon rolls. You know how to get a hold of me.) I miss the Whites. Sometimes I miss being a kid.

There were years that we didn’t go to any Christmas parties and we’d just stay home. One year my mom tried to get us to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.” None of us watched it. I think that upset my mom a little bit. I only say that because in a calm, but frightening tone of voice, she said, “It’s okay if you don’t watch this movie with me, children. I don’t really care. But Santa cares. Santa cares a LOT. You’ve made him very, very angry. And now, he hates you. Santa. Hates. You.”

You’d think that would scare little children, and it would have scared us, but we were in our twenties by then. But now that I think about it, that whole scenario might have just been a dream. It’s not like my mom to tell us that Santa hates us. Totally out of character.

Sometimes on Christmas Eve, we’d sing carols. Or we might just hang out as a family, doing nothing in particular. But no matter what we did, it was as a family; we were always together. My mom, my dad, my sisters and me. We were a family and we were, for the most part, happy to be together. I’m sure my sisters and I may have argued or fought, but not too much. Santa was watching us. When Santa’s watching and Christmas is only days (or hours) away, you don’t want to screw up at the last minute and not get those awesome toys you asked for. He might give you underwear instead.

As Christmas approached, each of us children could be found at one time or another, alone, in a darkened living room, mesmerized by the lights on the Christmas tree, lost in our thoughts (or passed out drunk...who’s to say?). I remember sitting in front of the Christmas tree, alone, thinking about how I couldn't believe it was finally Christmas again, wishing it could be Christmas forever, and dreading the end of the season, knowing it would end too quickly. It always ended too quickly.

For a few years, my sisters and I would sleep in the same room on Christmas Eve, excited about what Santa might bring us. We’d try to stay awake and listen for him, but we never heard him. Santa was as stealthy as any cat burglar could ever hope to be. He would sneak in, deliver our presents, and maybe eat the cookies and milk we’d left out from him. And then he would leave, without a trace. I don’t know how he always managed to avoid the spring-loaded traps that we set out for him. He’s a wily one, that Santa.

In the mornings, we’d wait for Grandpa and Grandma to come over before we’d open our presents. I was five years old the year Grandpa died. Then it was only Grandma who’d come over. She was getting on in years, so my dad would pick her up. Time stops for no man, and it didn’t stop for Grandma, either. Eventually, Christmas mornings no longer included Grandma. The long arm of the law finally caught up to her.

            The other day, my boys and I put up our Christmas tree. They like turning the lights on and off. Charlie, who is two, likes taking off the low-hanging decorations and throwing them. While we were putting up the tree, I thought about the Christmases of my childhood and how my family was always together. I thought about my own children and the Christmases to come. Sometimes they’ll be with their mom. Sometimes they’ll be with me. No doubt, their Christmases will always be great.

But not the same.


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Learning to Date Again

One of the reasons I liked being married was that I didn't have to deal with the anxieties of dating. When I became single again, I didn't date for a while. After putting years of blood, sweat, and tears into a relationship and having it fall apart, dating again seemed pointless.

No, not pointless.

Dangerous.

The wounds hadn't yet fully healed, and if they were ripped open again by someone new, I might not be able to recover this time. But as risky as dating seemed, I hated being alone. I hated being alone on a Friday night. Or a Saturday night. Or any night.

It had been over eight years since I'd asked a girl out. The last time I asked a girl out, the world was a different place. Texting didn't really exist back then. Neither did smartphones. Back then, I had a cell phone and a PDA, which I had to remember to sync to my computer. America Online was still huge and most people had dial-up internet connections. Remember life before Facebook? It was a primitive age. Had dating changed? I didn't know.

It's hard to know when you're ready to date again. My rule of thumb for determining whether you're ready to date again is this: if you're looking at lightbulbs at Costco and you start talking to the Hell's Angel biker next to you about your divorce, you're not ready to date. If you start talking to the Hell's Angel biker next to you about your divorce hoping that he'll give you a hug and tell you that everything will be all right and that there's a sweet girl out there just waiting for you to find her, you're really really not ready to start dating again.

When I decided to start dating again, the wounds hadn't yet healed. Maybe they never do. But I got to the point where I was ready to put the past in the . . . well, in the past. In other words, I spotted a hot girl I wanted to ask out. I was at her place of employment (which I won't disclose to protect her identity), making small talk with her, wanting to ask her out, but not knowing how to ask her out. My heart raced. I opened my mouth to ask her out. The words that came out were "Have a nice day."

And I quickly fled Victoria's Secret.

I had forgotten how to ask girls out. How did I do it before I got married? Hadn't I been a ladies' man back in the day? Those of you who know me will undoubtedly say, "Yes, you were the quintessential ladies' man back in the day." Who am I kidding? Nobody will say that. You may find it shocking (but probably not...oh, how the truth hurts) that I never really knew how to ask girls out. Not now, and not back then, either. Back then, my heart would race. Back then, my palms would sweat. Nothing had changed.

I didn't want to face another Friday night alone so I had to try again. I went back to her work. I looked around, trying to find her. Someone asked if they could help me. "No, thank you, I'm just browsing," I replied. That wasn't completely true, because I wasn't there to shop. I scanned the store, looking for her, hoping she was there.

And then I saw her. My heart raced. My palms were sweaty. It was nerve-wracking. I was certain that she'd laugh at me or roll her eyes in disgust or find some way to utterly reject me. But on that fateful day, standing there, looking at her, my heart rate hovering around 240, I asked her out and she said yes.

Despite my nervousness, I played it cool. We made tentative plans. I told her I'd call her. I turned to leave, still trying to play it cool, but wanting to escape before my cool exterior cracked revealing to the world the emotional wreck that I was. As I walked away, she called after me, saying, "Um, don't you want my number?" Oh yeah. That might help.

We went out to eat. Eating is difficult for me on a first date because I don't want to look like a slob. You know those people who get food on their face and they just don't notice it? I never know what to say. Maybe not knowing they have food on their face is their proper punishment for being so oblivious to their slobbery and for never using a napkin. I find it amazing that someone can get through a whole meal and not notice that they have a smear of cheese on their face. But what if that happened to me?

Luckily, the eating part went okay. I took small bites and tried to time my bites for when she wasn't looking, just in case I forgot to close my mouth and the food fell out. I also used my napkin a lot. We talked about something, but I was a little bit distracted by the fact that I'd forgotten her name.

Somehow, though, I survived the date. Since then, I've also survived being rejected. When that happens, I try to remember what the Hell's Angel biker at Costco told me: "Now, now, hush your crying. There's someone special out there just waiting for you."

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Greatest American Heroes

I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself that I don't have my kids with me on this Thanksgiving. But I can't feel sorry for myself, not when I think about people serving in the military a long way from home and family.

I've met Trinidad twice, but I consider him my friend. But that's the way it is with Trin: he's the kind of guy you're lifelong friends with the instant you meet him. He's also the kind of guy who'll knock your lights out if you hurt someone he cares about. I like that about him.

Trin is fighting for his country in a foreign, war-torn land. He's also helping children and moms and dads in a foreign, war-torn land. Meanwhile, his wife and baby wait for him at home, praying that he's safe, counting the days until he's home with them at last.

Trin would probably tell you that in the heat of battle, he's fighting for his buddies to the left and to the right of him, because they're doing the same for him. Their goal is to do their jobs, yes, but really, when the people you helped yesterday are now the people shooting at you today, you're fighting for your buddies, to help get them home.

To their wives and husbands.

To their moms and dads.

To their daughters.

To their sons.

To the families they can't be with on Thanksgiving.

Or birthdays.

Or Sundays.

Thank you Trin, and thank you to everyone who has sacrificed, who has left home and family to put it all on the line because you believe in something bigger than yourself. I fear that too many of us have forgotten the sacrifices that you're making.

I am truly grateful for you. You are heroes. You are in my thoughts today.

Holiday Blues

          For some, the holidays can be a depressing time of year. When your soul feels black and you feel that your life has no meaning and you've been beaten to the ground, the holidays can be tough to get through. Maybe impossible. 

          If you are depressed, it may seem trite, but I think it is worth saying: Your Creator, whatever you conceive Him to be, wants you to be happy. He put you on this earth, at this time, for an important reason. It doesn't matter whether you know the reason or not. You have worth. Your soul has worth. 

          But maybe you don't believe in God, or you believe that God is dead and that you are worthless and that no one cares about you. If you believe nothing else, then believe this: 

          I care. 

          I think you're important. And so do a lot of other people. 

          Treat yourself kindly. Let yourself rest. A lot of problems seem so much worse when you're fatigued. Always, always, remind yourself that tomorrow might be a better day.

          But if tomorrow is too far away or you don't know if you can make it until then, please find someone to talk to. And if you think there is no one you can talk to, you can talk to me. 

          I will be there in an instant. 

          I will listen to you. 

          I will hold your hand.

          Because I think you're important. 

          Pour out your cares, your worries, your fears, your soul. It will be our secret. I'll tell no one. That's my sacred promise to you.

          Because you are beautiful and important and I care about you.

 

.

Ask Mr. Fix-It

As an attorney, I’m expected to know everything, and I do. So I was not surprised when, recently, I was asked how to change a serpentine belt on a car. What surprised me was that most people don’t know how to change a serpentine belt. Because automotive repairs can be expensive and most of us would rather not pay a professional to have the job done correctly, I decided to post a how-to guide in case any of you ever need to make this repair yourself.

You may be asking yourself, “What is a serpentine belt?” As you know, there are no stupid questions, but this question challenges that assertion rather strongly. As everyone else but you knows, a serpentine belt is the belt in your car’s engine that holds the engine together. It needs to be changed when your car stops running and someone looks under the hood and says, “Your serpentine belt came off.”

Now, to replace a serpentine belt, you need the right tools for the job. To change a serpentine belt, you will need:

1. A screwdriver.
2. A hacksaw.
3. A hammer.
3. Some nails.
4. A wrench (optional).

Before we get to the basics of how to replace this most important of belts, a terminology lesson may be useful. First, why is it called a “serpentine” belt? Interestingly enough, the belt got its name from the Greek goddess of combustible engines, Serpentine, who famously wore belts. “Wait a minute,” you ask, "the god of combustible engines was a girl?” Yes, and the babes and I don’t like your sexist tone of voice.

The first thing you need to do when it comes time to change your serpentine belt is to buy a new one at an automotive store. Don’t worry about finding the right belt for your car. Odds are, this repair is going to end in disaster, so it doesn’t really matter which one you get.

Next, you want to dress appropriately for the job. I like to work on my car in the driveway. If it’s summer, I like to take off my shirt so that I can work on getting a healthy tan. Also, I like to favor the ladies with a view of my alabaster legs, so I make sure to wear a short pair of jean cutoffs. You don’t want to overheat, so it’s also best to cool off by pouring a can of Diet Dr. Pepper over your head, smiling at how refreshing it feels. Shake your head back and forth in slow motion refreshment. Next, since you just know that the single girl across the street is probably spying on you through her window, you can make her day by sexily washing your car.

Once you’ve finished sexily washing your car, it might be tempting to wait for the girl across the street to come over and introduce herself. She won’t, because she’s probably playing hard to get, or she’s stuck up, or she has a loser boyfriend who’s no good for her and can’t she just understand that she’d be happier with you but she’d know that if she’d just take the time to get to know you and all of your wonderful qualities but maybe just maybe she’ll fall in love with you if you save her from being hit by a speeding bus by pushing her out of the way in the nick of time.

Anyway, you have a car to fix. Later on, you can anonymously send the girl across the street flowers and make hang up calls to her so that she gets the message that someone out there loves her madly and she'll guess it's you, for sure. For now, though, open your car’s hood and take a looksy-daisy. What you’re going to want to find is a spring loaded idler or tensioner. Once you find that, take your wrench and loosen what we in the automotive world call the “doohickey.”

It may be hard to get the doohickey loosened, so be prepared to swear a little. If you can’t find the right combination of invectives to get the doohickey loosened, go grab a hammer. Take the hammer and hit various parts of the engine as hard as you can to punish it for tormenting you.

If you succeed in loosening the doohickey a smidge, you should be able to get the belt on, unless you loosened the wrong doohickey. Perhaps you loosened a sumthinorother, which should be tightened right back up. Once the belt is on, sexily refresh yourself with another Diet Dr. Pepper, but don't bask in the glow of your success too long. You still have a busy day ahead: you need to drive to the store to get some magazines to cut out words for the love letter you're going to send the girl across the street.

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Quicheable Moments

As parents, it is our responsibility to teach our children to be good people, to treat others with respect, and to try to make the world a better place. We must teach our children to respect themselves and to respect their bodies, because they are only given one. For those of us with sons, this obviously means that we must teach them that, under no circumstance, is it okay to eat quiche.

Everyone's heard the phrase, based on a book published in the early eighties, that "real men don't eat quiche." I first heard this as a young boy while watching a sitcom. I was young and impressionable and left alone to turn the dial to any of the four TV channels that we had. I don't know what the show was about, all I remember was hearing the phrase. Like any young boy, I wanted to grow up to be a man. A real man. So I made a solemn promise that I would never eat quiche.

I know that there are plenty of "real men" who eat quiche. Unfortunately, I don't have any data to support that hypothesis, so I'm probably wrong. But like Samson couldn't cut his hair, I couldn't eat quiche. Except that, unlike Samson and his hair, with me, there was no divine commandment involved, unless you argue that television replaced God and, therefore, the commandment was divine. But if television replaced God as god, then television's divinity was replaced by my Atari 2600, which was then replaced by my Commodore 64, which was eventually replaced by my 1972 baby blue Toyota pickup, which was replaced by a string of Mazda RX7s, which were eventually replaced by my first "modern" computer pre-loaded with Windows 95, which was replaced by a series of other computers, cell phones, smartphones, and Louisiana Hot Sauce, which makes everything taste better. Except for ice cream. This is what you get for following logic to its logical conclusion. So you should stop arguing that television replaced God or you'll go to hell, according to this new app on my smartphone.

Back to the point about how I differ from Samson, if at all. Well, for one, I have not killed a lion with my bare hands. But I bet I could. If the lion was weak and had no teeth and was dead and I had a sharp knife and maybe a gun. Also, I'm not sure that I've dated anyone named Delilah. I think I would have remembered that. But the 90s were a crazy time, a time when Kevin Costner was, against all odds and despite a stunning lack of acting ability, a movie star. It was also a time when I decided to wear my hair a little shorter, a decision I've lived with ever since. With so much going on in the 90s, I can't really say whether I've ever dated anyone named Delilah. Nor am I entirely sure whether I dated anyone at all in the 90s. What exactly did I do during that decade? I may have hit the snooze button for a good ten years.

Oh, you want to hear some quiche war stories? Well, as you may have suspected, there have been a couple of close calls with my vow of quiche-abstinence. Let me tell you about the first time I nearly lost my soul to quiche.

I was on a first date with a girl I'd met in college. Naturally, I wanted to impress her, so I took her to a fancy restaurant. I clearly remember standing in the buffet line, eyeballing some exotic food that I'd never seen before. I'm an adventurous fellow, as long as there's no danger involved, so I put a heaping helping of huevos on my plate and returned to our table.

I'll never forget sitting across from my date and looking deeply into her eyes. I had to stare deeply into her eyes because, if I didn't, my eyes would be drawn upward to the large pimple in the middle of her forehead. It was an eye-magnet, that pimple. Little did I know that I'd soon forget all about that pustule of purulent material.

I forked a large bite of mystery food into my mouth. That was when she purred, "I didn't know they had quiche."

I stopped chewing. Through a mouthful of egg, I asked her the obvious question: "Did you just purr?" But then the words she'd spoken hit me like a ton of fritters. My next question, again through a mouthful of egg that was now spilling onto the table in front of me, was: "Am I eating quiche?"

She nodded but, realizing that I'd asked her two questions, I asked, "Yes, you're purring? Or yes, I'm eating quiche?"

"Quiche," she purred.

Heroically, I spit the quiche into my napkin. I grinned debonairly and explained, "I don't eat quiche." Needless to say, she was impressed and begged me to go out with her again. Well, she didn't really beg. But we did date exclusively after that. By exclusively, I mean that I am the only one that she dated, other than the football team.

The moral of the story is that you should take a girl to a nice buffet-style restaurant if you want to impress her. And play Division I-A football. Most importantly and, as I think I've convincingly argued, we must teach our sons that they should not eat quiche.

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Dating and Dining

I like to eat. But not while on a date. It's too much pressure, eating while trying to impress the ladies. Too much can go wrong, no matter how awesome you are. Take it from me.

I once went on a date with a vegan, but I didn't know she was a vegan.  (Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against vegans. They're people, too. Allegedly. But we're talking about dating and first impressions, not whether vegans should be ostracized and ridiculed. Nor are we talking about whether they should be incarcerated and sentenced to hard labor, like many of you so fervently believe. Please stop changing the subject.)  I should have picked up on the fact that she was a vegan when she threw red paint on my fur coat and called me a murderer. Instead, the only thing that crossed my mind was, "That's strange."  The other thing that crossed my mind was, "I wonder if she likes me."

I probably would have picked up on her hatred of all things normal if I hadn't been so preoccupied with whether I'd zipped my fly. Thinking about my fly made me think of the old Levi's commercials, you know, the ones with the jingle that goes "Levi's button fly Five-Oh-One jeans. Yeah!"  

Oh, and remember the Cherry 7-Up commercials? "Isn't it cool, in pink? Cherry 7-Up." 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_OV8jTEbJk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meBh3o7eqJI&NR=1

I liked those commercials for some reason. Maybe because they had this 50's vibe that reminded me of my time at Rydell High, and the summer that I met an Australian girl named Sandy, and how my buddies and I fixed up a junker car and raced it for pinks at Thunder Road. Ah, the good old days.

Wait a minute. We're talking about my fly. So there I stood, not knowing what to do. Should I check it? Probably not while she's looking. On the other hand, I couldn't just stand there like an idiot if my fly was undone. It was a dilemma unlike any I'd ever had. At least, not since the day before, when I had walked across campus, wondering whether I'd forgotten to zip my fly.

Then a plan formed in my head. I said, "Hey, I forgot my wallet. You don't mind paying do you?" She raised her eyebrows, probably impressed at how good looking I was, especially since I was sporting a suit vest without a shirt on underneath it, you know, so I could show off my guns. Anyway, she went in the other room and got her purse, giving me just enough time to check my fly. Thankfully, it wasn't undone. Mission accomplished.

The moral of the story is that once we got to the restaurant, she wasn't impressed that I had ordered steak. She said, "You're like a murderer, eating flesh. Gross."

I told her that I wasn't the one who killed the cow, but since it was already dead, why let it go to waste? "Here, want a bite?" I offered.

Tragically, my hopes and dreams of having a family with this girl, whom I'd known for almost 24 hours, were destroyed. It's kind of sad when you put that kind of time into a relationship and it turns out to be all for nothing. 

Which brings me to my next point:  how you eat is every bit as important as what you eat. Transporting food from your plate to your mouth without getting any of it on your forehead or on your shirt isn't as easy as you'd think. Don't believe me? Try it sometime. 

What's especially embarrassing is when you take a bite that is way too big. As you're sitting there chewing that four ounces of steak, you realize that you just won't be able to chew it enough, and you have to remove it from your mouth (sheepishly) and then cut it up some more. I don't know how many times that's happened, but it's always embarrassing. I've found it's not so bad, though, if I can cast some embarrassment on my date by telling her she's got a booger hanging out of her nose and that it's really disgusting. That way she can't be so judgmental. Who does she think she is, anyway? 

But then, eventually, if you date long enough, you get to the point where you're comfortable eating in front of your girlfriend. I once was in a relationship and we went out to eat. I had done something completely stupid, I don't really remember what it was...something like taking a route to the restaurant that was five minutes longer than the "ideal" route, when, in fact, the "ideal" route wasn't so "ideal" because it was five o'clock traffic and everyone knows what kind of logjam you're going to face on westbound I-84 that time of day.  But I don't really recall. She could have been mad about anything. 

So we're at the restaurant and she's mad at me about something.  I remember thinking that the only way that I was going to make the situation better was if I ate two entrees. Then everything would be okay. Now that I think about it, I don't know why I thought that would get me out of trouble, but it seemed logical at the time. Maybe she had a coupon and wanted to save some money.  I don't know. 

So I ate two entrées and afterwards my stomach was so full that I thought it was going to explode. It was awful. It was so bad that, for the first time in my life, I made myself throw up. But back to my initial premise about the kind of commitment that I bring to a relationship: I bring nothing less than the willingness to eat two incredibly delicious entrées at one sitting if I think it will make a girl happy. But never on a first date. I'm not that kind of guy.

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The Sound of Silence

I am often asked why I started this blog.  That’s not true.  I’m never asked why I started this blog.  But since you asked, the reason I started this blog was to keep myself busy when I don’t have my kids.  My house was always full of noise and commotion and activity and life.  It’s still that way when the kids are there, but when they’re away, the house is silent.  Lonely. 

Coming home after work to a dark, lifeless house isn’t something I enjoy.  I turn on the lights.  I see reminders of my kids…pictures they’ve drawn, messes they’ve made, toys left out.

Photographs of my children are scattered on my desk.  Some are recent.  Some are older.  I last saw my boys only yesterday, but I miss them.  I stand at the sink, doing dishes, and the house is silent.  It is physically painful to be separated from my sons.  But it’s more than that. It feels like a piece of my soul has been amputated.

I finish the dishes and try not to think.  Thinking doesn’t help.  I go into the living room.  It’s a disaster.  Charlie likes to pull the cushions off the couches.  It’s a serious endeavor for him, like it’s his job.  As soon as I replace the cushions and leave the room, he’s removing them again.  And now, in the half-lit, silent house, I look at the cushions on the floor.  Charlie had them stacked for some reason.  I feel a lump in my throat.  I put the cushions back on the couches.

Laundry.  I have to do the laundry.  It’s a good thing the boys aren’t here, because I have so much cleaning to do.  This thought tastes bitter.  It makes me stop in my tracks.  It is a lie.   It is never a good thing when the boys aren’t here. 

I try to breathe. 

I try not to hyperventilate.  

I miss my boys. 

I go into the laundry room and start the laundry.  I go to the toy room.  It’s a disaster.  I find socks on the floor and take them to the laundry room.  I return to the toy room.  Toys are scattered everywhere.  I can’t clean it.  Not tonight.  I turn off the light and leave the room.

My phone rings.  I look at the incoming number.  It’s my ex’s number.  I answer it and hear Jackson’s voice.  He’s excitedly telling me about what he did today.  I hear his mom in the background telling him to tell me where they went and what they did next.  Ethan gets on the phone.  “Love you, Dad.  Poop.”  He’s a man of few words.  Charlie talks.  I hear his mom tell him to say “Love you.  Miss you.”  Hearing my sons’ voices brings tears to my eyes, but it is a gift, and I am grateful for it.   


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My Children's Mother

Being a single parent can be challenging, but I know I have it pretty good.  Yes, we ran out of syrup this morning (again).  Maybe we have pancakes too often,  I don’t know.  It doesn’t help that the boys insist on putting the syrup on their pancakes by themselves.  Is half a bottle of syrup for two pancakes too much? I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it is. When your kids are drinking their syrup through a straw, it’s a pretty safe bet that you should rethink the issue of who’s in charge of syruping the pancakes.  (I think I’ll put that piece of advice in my forthcoming book “Super Daddy.”)

My challenges, I know, are minor, and I really have no complaints.  It’s not like my children and I are stranded far from home and family.  Nor is my former spouse on the other side of the world, unable to help.  She is, in fact, about a block away, we have shared custody, and she is always willing to help, if need be.  We don’t always see eye to eye, though.  Probably because I’m taller, by about half an inch.

As you might expect, the fact that I towered over my ex created a certain amount of marital discord.  I used to call her “Half Pint” and “Shorty Shorty Shorty Short Short.”  Sometimes, she would try talking to me and I’d pretend that I couldn’t see her for a few . . . hours.  Then I’d look down and say, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there, Smurfette.”  Then we’d both have a good laugh, except that she wasn’t laughing.  So I guess it was just me laughing.

While my ex and I don’t always agree on things, we both love our children, and they love us.  Or at least they say they do.  Sometimes it’s really hard to tell whether they’re telling the truth about how they feel about us or whether they’re scheming to get sweets.  We’ll see how much they love us when the Halloween candy runs out.

My ex has taken the lead in getting the boys ready for their upcoming sports seasons.  I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that she wants Jackson to play football.  Maybe it’s because she knows that girls like football stars.  I don’t think Jackson will need to play football for girls to be interested in him, though.  Not if he’s anything like his old man.  I remember going on at least one date in high school, and I didn’t play football. 

I’ll never forget that date.  We watched “Dances with Wolves.”  It was magical.  My favorite part was when that one Native American said:

Dances With Wolves.  I am Wind In His Hair.  Do you see that I am your friend?  Can you see that you will always be my friend? 

That really moved me.  And then I noticed that my date had eaten all of the Mike and Ike’s. We went out again, but as they say, Once bitten, twice shy.  But the point is, what kind of name is Wind In His Hair?  That seems like a pretty easy name to earn.  I think I’d like my name to be Kills Bear With One Punch So You Better Watch Out If You Know What’s Good For You But No Fear Ladies I’ll Treat You Right What Are You Doing After The Rain Dance.  Just by telling a girl my name, I could impress her with my prowess and ask her out at the same time.   

My ex is a good mother.  She may be short (5’7 ½” ha ha ha ha), but she’s a good mother to my children, and I appreciate that.  So if you’re not nice to the mother of my children, just remember, my name is Kills Bear With One Punch So You Better Watch Out If You Know What’s Good For You.


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Living Through My Sons

I don't want my kids to feel pressure to make the cover of Sports Illustrated.  But it would be nice, you know?  And I'm obviously not talking about the kind of covers involving scandals or Heisman trophy winners who turned out to be busts.  I'm talking about Sportsman of the Year covers.  No pressure, though.  I'll still love them if, during their entire professional athletic careers, they never appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated.  Would I be disappointed if they didn't make the cover?  What parent wouldn't?  But I'm fully aware that my children won't have editorial control of who goes on the cover.  No, all they can do is train harder, practice longer, and simply be the kind of athletes who deserve the cover.

I used to think that I'd someday make an SI cover.  But that dream was destroyed at the age of 30 when I realized that I did not then, nor did I ever have, any athletic ability whatsoever.  While it's still too early to tell, unfortunately for my kids, they may have inherited my athletic (in)abilities.  Anyone who has ever suffered with me as a teammate would agree that the gene that controls my athletic ineptitude is most likely a dominant gene, and a damn dominant gene, at that.  Stellar athletes do not--and I repeat DO NOT--try to catch a baseball with their teeth.  Stellar basketball players do not miss 99% of their shots.  There may be unfriendly rims, but they're usually unfriendly to everyone, not just you.

Earlier this year, when Jackson played his first season of soccer, I was pretty excited to see how he'd do.  His coach was a girl, which I was okay with because I'm a modern sort of guy and, besides, she was cute.  Jackson did pretty well when he wasn't distracted by the coach's daughter.  But when he was distracted, the ball would roll right past him and he had no idea it was there--he was too busy making silly faces, trying to impress the coach's daughter.  That's what someone told me, anyway.  I didn't notice because I was too busy making silly faces, trying to impress the coach.

Jackson will be playing football soon, and Ethan will be playing T-ball.  Charlie is only two, so he'll naturally be busy trying to run onto the field to play with his brothers.  I'm happy that they'll be involved in sports soon because there are so many important life lessons that sports teach children, such as the value of hard work, the value of teamwork, and how to talk trash.  

But what happens if my sons hate sports and their interests are elsewhere?  As I was about to answer that question, I checked on my boys (it's night, and they're sleeping).  Jackson was on the edge of his bed, about to fall off.  I slid him towards the center of his bed and he yelled "Time out!"  I have a feeling he'll play sports.

But what if they hate sports?  I am, quite simply, my sons' biggest fan.  There are times that they misbehave and get in trouble, and when that happens, I do my best to correct their behavior.  In my heart, though, they can do no wrong.  So as long as my sons are true to who they are and pursue their dreams unrepentantly, my heart will rejoice and I will feel that I have succeeded as a father.  Sports Illustrated can keep its Sportsman of the Year.

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Hawaii Five-0

It's Saturday night.  And being the swinging bachelor that I am, I'm at home.  The boys are in bed and asleep.  It was a good day.  The plan initially was to meet up at Grandma and Grandpa's house to watch BSU trounce Hawai'i (please note the proper spelling...I have it on good authority that it is "Hawai'i" and not "Hawaii."  The apostrophe between last two letters was the result of Hawai'i's state legislature taking action to make it clear to the world that the name of their beautiful state was pronounced huh-wahy-ee, and NOT tuh-hee-tee.)

Anyhoo...The plan was to watch Bois'e State (note the new spelling) trounce Tahiti.  I mean Hawai'i.  So we loaded up and went to Grandma and Grandpa's.  Two of my sisters and their children showed up, Grandpa had the grill going, so all in all, it was a party in the making.  


Then, something occurred to me.  The game was going to be broadcast on ESPNU, but my parents didn't have ESPNU.  That was when I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong and that my parents didn't intend for us to leave alive.  


I rushed to the door and tried to open it, but it was too late.  The doors were locked from the outside.  We were trapped.  We pounded on the doors.  We screamed.  Grandma and Grandpa just laughed maniacally and said that nobody could hear our pitiful screams, because Grandpa had soundproofed the walls.  "It's delightful to have you FOR dinner," Grandma cackled as she sharpened her butcher knife.


Okay, I made up the last two paragraphs.  I'm sure it's going to make my mom very angry because she hates it when I portray her as a cannibal who eats her own children.  She likes to be portrayed in a more "positive" light.  It's called literary license, ma!  The truth of the matter, however, is that my parents had a beautiful assortment of food--fruits, veggies, bratwursts, you name it.


Now where was I before taking that detour down macabre lane?  Oh yeah, no ESPNU at my parents' house.  Luckily, my sister Mollie has ESPNU at her house.  So she said, "Hey y'all, let's head down yonder t'my place.  I got ESPNU fer sher."  That's not really how she talks, but I have a lousy ear for dialog.   


Since the grill was already going, we ate before caravaning to Mollie's house, where we caught the rest of the game.  The cousins got to play with each other, and there was food and laughter.  Among the adults, there was also laughter, as well as some tears, some cross words, a few punches thrown, more laughter, and a brief intervention by law enforcement.  In other words, it was a typical family get together.

Now, at home, I wonder what the get togethers will be like when my kids are grown. Looking at my boys, asleep, I'm amazed at how much they've already grown.  I kiss each of them on the cheek and whisper to them that I love them.  In my mind's eye, they are newborn babies.  It seems like yesterday that I held them, fed them bottles, and rocked them at night, singing:

                              Rock-a-bye, Say goodnight

                              Daddy loves you, Rock-a-bye.

Charlie is the only one who'll let me sing that to him anymore.  Jackson and Ethan are "big boys" now and don't want me to sing baby songs to them.  Soon (too soon), Charlie won't let me sing it to him, either.  But looking at my sleeping boys tonight, no matter what, they will always be my babies.

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